


Catabasis

by hes5thlazarus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Queer Families, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: Kirkwall's in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place?
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Hawke & Anders, Hawke & Aveline Vallen, Hawke & Bethany, Hawke & Isabela (Dragon Age), Hawke & Varric Tethras, Hawke/Merrill (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23
Collections: Genuary 2021





	1. No Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a series of prompts musetta3 and ellie-elfie sent me. This one was "sleepy hug."

The trek to Wycombe was exhausting. Isabela’s ship had been run aground and commandeered by templars associated with the Starkhaven army. They had to bundle Anders and Merrill out in coffins, conveniently left empty. Varric had thought it was hilarious. Anders was less amused. The first inn they stopped at wouldn’t take elves, either, and Hawke had to be talked out of making a scene.   
  
“Enough,” Merrill says, exhausted. “Let’s just get to the woods. We can take turns keeping watch.” Hawke eyes their friends. Fenris and Isabela are half-carrying Anders, who took a Smite and a slash from a templar’s sword. Aveline’s hair is singed from getting in the way of Bethany’s fireblast, and Varric has been muttering to himself the entire time. Out of all of them, he is the one who should have remained in Kirkwall. Aveline would follow Hawke to the ends of the earth, and has, but Varric has no skin in this game. Except these are his friends. These are their friends.   
  
“Fine,” Hawke says. “But what’ll be there? Half the mages in Kirkwall, and half the templars too. It’s not going to be an easy night.”   
  
“It’s never easy,” Fenris says. “We need to get moving. There’s a cave the Underground uses that’s too far. Hopefully it’s not too full.”   
  
Hawke is too tired to be annoyed. They stride on ahead, hands on both their daggers, while Varric covers them from the back. They should not be angry Fenris knows more about Anders and his Underground than them. They should not be angry their two best friends kept them well out of their riskiest enterprise--planning a revolution to free the slaves of Thedas. They understand they wanted to protect them, after Leandra was killed. They know that, intellectually. But they’re upset, they almost feel betrayed. They knew Anders was planning something, and they had guessed it was huge. They weren’t an idiot, they knew what sela petrae could do. But they had thought he would tell them about the Underground before Fenris. For the love of the Maker, they had a sister in the Circle! They had spent their whole life hunted, because of the Chantry’s hatred of mages. Anders could have trusted them. He should have.   
  
Aveline says, “You’re upset.”   
  
Hawke says testily, “Is it so obvious? Kirkwall’s on fire, we’re on the run, and Anders might be dying. And I don’t think a dragon lady is going to drop out of the sky and save us this time.”   
  
Aveline touches their arm. “We made it through Lothering, Hawke. We survived the Deep Roads. The Qunari. It’s not going to end here.” She releases a shaky breath. “Maker’s breath, I won’t let it end here. Not until I can  _ pummel _ Fenris for not telling me.”   
  
“Ah,” Hawke says. “I’ll join in.”   
  
“I can hear you,” Fenris drones from the background. They trip off the main road and into the woods now, and it is safer to talk about what they have just survived. “It was all need-to-know, and you didn’t need to know. Once we found out Meredith requested the Rite of Annulment, we had to act quickly.”   
  
“Yeah,” Varric says, “but you didn’t have to blow up the fucking city.”   
  
“Oh yes,” Fenris says. “I should’ve just let them kill Bethany and Anders, and continue to enslave the Tranquil.”   
  
“I’m not saying that!” Varric snaps.   
  
“Yes, you are,” Bethany mutters.   
  
“Can we not fight right now?” Isabela says. “Like, can we wait til Anders isn’t bleeding to death on me at least, before we all turn on each other?”   
  
“No one’s fighting,” Aveline says reproachfully.   
  
“Everyone is,” Bethany says darkly.   
  
“You’re not helping,” Aveline says.   
  
Hawke says, “Andraste’s ass, everyone. Chill.” This is not as bad as their mother blaming them for Carver’s death right over his body, Bethany staring wide-eyed while Aveline buries her own husband. They have been through worse. Still, it’s not a walk in the Viscount’s Garden. “Fenris, you’re the only one who knows where this cave is. I’ll take Anders. Bela, you cover him. Merrill, help me out here.” Anders is not really conscious. Hawke hefts him onto one shoulder, and Merrill takes his other arm, and together they drag him through the undergrowth. He’s muttering to himself, and it doesn’t sound like Common.   
  
“Do you think Justice has taken over?” Hawke mutters to Merrill, hoping Varric can’t hear them.   
  
“I think he’s put himself in a healing sleep,” Merrill says. “Tricky, that. I wonder who taught him. I didn’t think Andrastians trusted the Fade enough.”   
  
A ghost of a smile crosses Hawke’s face. “You haven’t answered my question.” Merrill looks at them from the corner of her eye but keeps levering Anders forward. It’s hard work, moving him. They ought to have kept him in the coffin, easier to transport that way. Hawke laughs to themself. And if he dies, they could’ve burned and buried him right there. The grieving could come later, like it did with Carver.   
  
They reach a mossy cliff-face. Fenris is looking up, frowning. Hawke and the rest catch up. Carefully, they put Anders down. Aveline changes his bandages, glowering at the state of his wound. Clouds are gathering ahead and the night is coming dark and fast. They haven’t enough food, either. Hawke puts their head in their hands for a second, trying to calm themself down. They’ve spent their whole life being chased. This is nothing new. Merrill puts her arm around them silently, and they listen to Fenris, Bethany, and Varric quarrel.   
  
“We use these caves to smuggle escaped slaves from Tevinter,” Fenris says stiffly. “I trust this network with my life. They have  _ saved _ my life.”   
  
“Yeah, well, Feynriel said that about Samson, and look where he ended up,” Varric says. “Blondie needs medical attention. He needs rest. What makes you think these people won’t just sell him out? Just because they were good to you doesn’t mean they’ll protect the rest of us, too.”   
  
“Varric,” Bethany says, “you don’t know a thing about Samson and Feynriel, so please. Please. The less you know about the mage underground, the better. It’s safer for us that way. But trust us. We’re not walking into an ambush, I promise. But we can’t tell you more than that. I’ll go first up the cliff if that makes you feel better.”   
  
“That doesn’t, Sunshine,” Varric sighs. He rubs the bridge of his nose, as if he has a headache coming. He probably does. Hawke doesn’t blame him. “Fine. But I can’t believe you kept this secret from me. Broody, I thought you hated mages.”   
  
Fenris says, “I’ve been sleeping with Anders since the riot at the docks, Varric.”   
  
Isabela calls over, “Doesn’t mean you like him!”   
  
Fenris gives Hawke such a look of exasperated despair that they laugh. They shake Merrill off and take charge, because clearly no one else is going to, and as they quibble Anders continues to bleed, and they are not sure what Justice will do next.   
  
“How do we get up there?” Hawke says. “I’m assuming it’s up the cliff. I don’t think Merrill can levitate us all up. Do we have enough rope to climb it?”   
  
It’s Isabela who scales the cliff like she’s been doing it all her life, knotting a harness up and throwing it down to carefully pull everyone up. They load Anders onto Aveline’s back and tie him to her. Varric freezes halfway up, afraid of heights, but Isabela and Fenris just yank him straight in, and he screams so loudly the birds fly from the trees.   
  
“Well,” Bethany says, “so much for being discreet.”   
  
“We carried them out in coffins, Bethany,” Hawke says. “And then Merrill jumped out and dragged Anders up, still breathing, and then pranced down the street. We are incapable of being discreet. We have never been discreet. Even in Lothering, people thought we were weird.”   
  
“I blended in, thanks very much,” Bethany bickers. “Anyway, you go up. I’ll spot you. Please.” Hawke opens their mouth to protest but Bethany glares, and they back down. “All my life, you’ve tried your best to protect me. Let me have your back this time. Please.” It is difficult to say no to her, so Hawke trusts in her magic, and climbs up. Of course Bethany has their back. They clamber up the rock, shaking with exhaustion. Varric wasn’t irrational to scream. The rope burns their hands, the moss makes their feet slip, and the stone itself is cold. They drag themself over the final foot, and Isabela helps hoist them up.   
  
“Bethany, hurry up!” they call back down. She looks small, from all the way up here, and she’s never been one for running outdoors, not like Carver was. Bethany huffs, grabs the rope, and marches herself up, less winded than Hawke themself.   
  
“Fast enough for you?” Bethany asks.   
  
Hawke just smiles back, relieved. They hug her and Bethany rests her head on their shoulder. Kirkwall was supposed to be the end of it all, but at least they have each other. Isabela gives them a moment before taking them deeper in the cave. It’s well-provisioned, and even painted, in a distinctly elvhen style. Representatives of a mad wolf flank the mouth of the cave. Hawke reaches out to touch it, but Isabela shakes her head. They head in, wondering. Some of the depictions are maps, another is of the constellations, and a few are just name: ƛήτω, Ϝα⍴ɑνɩα, and then an alphabet they didn’t recognized. Hawke points to it.   
  
“What’s that?”   
  
“Sindarin,” Merrill says shortly. “The oldest language on this land. I can’t read it, Clan Sabrae is from what you call Antiva. Fenris would know better than me.”   
  
In the back, Aveline and Fenris have taken out the blankets and constructed almost a pillowfort for Anders. Varric is rummaging through various jars, sniffing at them suspiciously. They’ve changed Anders’ bandages and are setting up for the night. Hawke is gripped by a fierce rush of love. They’ve survived worse. They’ve found shelter for the night, and food, and medicine. They will get through the night, and perhaps that means they can get through the day as well.   
  
“How many caves are there like this?” Varric says, peering into a terracotta jar painted green. “Is this all Dalish? Or do the mages use them too?”   
  
“It’s the underground,” Fenris says quietly, fingers on Ander’s neck. He is checking his pulse. Merrill witches up some fairylight, and the scene grows positively cozy. “Everyone who needs them uses them. Varric, don’t ask me anymore. You don’t want to know.”   
  
“You keep saying that,” Hawke says, “but we really want to. We’re your friends, Fenris. After everything we’ve all been through together, some transparency would be--decent.”   
  
Anders shifts suddenly. He cries out. Fenris focuses in, and Aveline turns over and shakes her head at Hawke. They let out a short, angry burst of air out of their nose, like a horse, and exchange a glance with Varric.   
  
“Let’s just get some sleep,” Aveline says. “It’s a fortnight of walking before we get to Wycombe. We need to preserve our energy.” Hawke backs down, and they set up camp. Fenris sits by Anders’ bedroll, holding his hand now. That is yet another thing the two would never talk about--Hawke knows they killed a guard and had to hide out for awhile, and it has something to do with the riot at the docks last year, but Merrill advised them not to pry. Hawke leans against the cave wall and closes their eyes. Bethany wouldn’t write about how bad things were in the Circle, Aveline wouldn’t talk about how bad things were getting in the guards, and Varric kept dodging talking about Bartrand and their parents. They’re tired of the silences. They all know each other too well, to ignore this.   
  
Varric sits down heavily next to them. His face is gray with exhaustion. Hawke, half-asleep, wraps him in a hug. Varric sighs into their embrace. Everyone is silent. Even Isabela is quiet. They drift off to sleep, holding onto their friend, and when they wake up in the pale morning, Varric is still at their side, Bethany drooling on their shoulder, and Isabela is using their legs like a pillow. They smile slightly. They have made it through the night, and now the morning seems possible.


	2. Go Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions boil over when it begins to rain, and Hawke and co. have nowhere to run from their own resentment of each other.

Anders isn’t well enough to move in the morning. It is frankly a miracle he managed to leave that coffin at all. Aveline and Fenris stick close to his bedroll. Aveline has a working knowledge of battlefield triage from her time in Cailan’s army--Hawke’s heart twists, remembering Carver--and Fenris is devoted, as always. Varric, Isabela, and Hawke confer and decide that waiting a day may actually help them. Sebastian would assume they would try to stay on the move, and this cave is hard to find. Then the sky breaks open and it begins to rain. That decides matters. They are to stay put. They need the rest.   
  
“I’m bored,” Isabela says. “I’m bored and I’m horny and I’m mad. Someone entertain me. Do a little dance.” She looks at Varric.   
  
“No,” he says. “At least, not this early in the day. Get me liquored up first.”   
  
Isabela stretches invitingly., consciously enjoying how everyone cannot help but look at her. “You’re no fun.”   
  
Aveline sighs. Anders is still not awake. The Smite was worse than the sword-wound. His connection with Justice makes any interruption from the Fade dangerous. Hawke is worried.   
  
They say, “Alright, Aveline?”   
  
“No,” Aveline says. “I’ve fought with mages before, but I’ve never seen one hurt like this. I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m not a trained healer, and the only person who would know what to do is currently in a coma. Not to mention he blew up the Chantry and the templars set fire to half of Kirkwall. So, no. I’m not alright, Hawke.”   
  
Everyone is silent for a moment. The rain patters down, and thunder shivers the shelter. Dog pads over and sits next to Hawke, demanding to be pet. They scratch him and wonder what the fuck they have to say.   
  
Merrill speaks into the awkwardness, “Felandaris might help. I’ll check the stocks.” She conjures a light and heads towards the back of the shelter, which is outfitted with shelves. Whoever kept it prepared for trouble. Hawke gets up and follows her.   
  
“Do you know what this place is?” Hawke says quietly. Merrill ignores them, picking up jars and inspecting them. She’s nervous. Her hands are shaking. She is still dealing with magical exhaustion from the battle of Kirkwall. Perhaps that will be how the Chantry will write it, Hawke thinks: the Battle of Kirkwall, which its Champion lost.   
  
Merrill stares fixedly at the containers. “I can’t answer that, Hawke. I--you’re my heart, my home, but this isn’t yours. This is my people’s, my love. Not as sacrosanct as the eluvian, but close. And Fenris should not have brought us here. Not even for Anders. Not without the Keepers’ permission.” She sniffs a jar and grins. Holding it out to them, she chirps, “Found it! This will wake him up. Or cause him to hallucinate. Or both.” She smiles at them uncertainly, but Hawke is even more annoyed. They walk away, shaking their head. The cave system is fascinating, massive, well-stocked, and highly-decorated. It is obviously carefully maintained. There is enough food, medicine, and bedrolls to supply a small traveling party for weeks. The wall paintings make Hawke suspect that it is Dalish, but that does not explain why Fenris would know about it, and why Anders might be an exception. “Not even for Anders”--how much have they all been keeping from him? Hawke wants to know.   
  
Bethany is sitting at the mouth of the cave, watching the rain. Dog sits by her, ever watchful. Hawke stops to take in the scene. Malcolm Hawke had predicted this sort of life for them, however much Leandra tried to change it. In the end money couldn’t save them. Hawke sighs. They thought Kirkwall would be different, but they’d fucked that up too.   
  
“Hey, sister,” Hawke says. “You know what the fuck is going on?” They settle next to her. Dog throws his full weight into their lap, and Hawke winces, patting his belly. “ _ You _ need to lay off the mabari crunch, boy. Though I suppose there won’t be much of that on the road.”   
  
Bethany keeps her face averted. “How’s Anders?”   
  
“No one’s going to answer my questions, then,” Hawke says instead. “I’ll trade you an answer for a morning.”   
  
Bethany gets up and heads back to the back of the cave, leaving Hawke alone with the mabari. Hawke rolls their eyes: that answers that, then. “Right,” they say. “Just have to force it out of them, then. Nothing else to do, with this rain.” Then they hear shouting, and they perk up. Trouble is easier to handle than tension. Hawke can handle trouble. Tension just drives them up the walls. They bound to the back of the cave eagerly, Dog at their heels.   
  
The scene that confronts them is bizarre. Fenris is straddling a glowing Anders, carefully avoiding his wound, but pinching his nose. Aveline is holding down his shoulders, and Merrill is trying to force a drink down his throat. Varric and Isabela look up from their card game to gawk.   
  
“Heh,” Hawke says. “Justice can’t handle a taste of his own medicine.”   
  
Bethany groans. Merrill gets the concoction down Anders’ throat and he stops glowing. He falls back heavily, and Aveline and Merrill pull away as Fenris closes his eyes, pained, and climbs off of him. He’s very tender with him. He kisses Anders’ forehead and wipes away the sweat and spilled medicine from his face.   
  
“Cute,” Hawke says. “Now that Anders is less of a ‘blowing himself up’ risk, want to explain how you know about this place? What the Underground is, exactly?”   
  
“Hawke,” Fenris tries, but Hawke puts up a hand.   
  
“No. You’ve been working with the mage underground, haven’t you. And this,” they gesture to the space around them, “is somehow connected with this. Elves and mages all working together in happy harmony. And you didn’t tell me. None of you did. As if this isn’t my fight, too. As if I didn’t cover up for your shit in Kirkwall, as much as I could.”   
  
“It isn’t your fight,” Bethany says quietly.   
  
“Like fuck it is!” Hawke snaps. “I thought we were family. All of us. I can understand you keeping Varric out of it, and Isabela hates having opinions--”   
  
“Hey!” Isabela protests. “Actually, wait, that’s true. Carry on.”   
  
Hawke brushes their hair out of their face, exasperated. “Right. And I really don’t understand how Aveline handles all this conflict of interest--”   
  
“I don’t,” Aveline says shortly. “Not like you’ve ever asked, but I don’t.”   
  
Hawke decides they are going to address that later. Right now they want to mad at Fenris, Bethany, and Merrill, and it is easier to focus on one thing at a time. “Nice. Not like you’ve ever told me, but that’s not the point. The point is--this is my fucking fight. My father was a mage. Bethany--you’re the only other Hawke left! You’re my family. Merrill, you too, Fenris, Anders--all of you! If there was an underground I would’ve liked to be part of it! We could’ve leveraged the Amell name! There was only so much I could do through the nobility, you could’ve used my money--”   
  
Fenris says, “Stop acting as if you are the hero of every story, and we are just your companions. I have my life and struggle, and you do not need to be at the center of every battle.”   
  
“That’s not fair,” Hawke says.   
  
Fenris gets up. “You have no idea what happens to the elves in Darktown. Kelder is one of the petty monsters we must face. Did you think because you struck him down, you freed the alienage of their human plague?” Fenris has a tendency for melodrama when he’s angry. Hawke has always admired it. Right now, though, they’re insulted.   
  
“No,” they say, “but--”   
  
“Kirkwall’s at the center of the slave trade. You know this, we’ve fought enough of the Blind Men and the Carta. So we organized an underground. I am not the only self-freed man in Kirkwall, nor will I be the last. But to make sure I am not the last, we needed to keep it on a need-to-know basis, Hawke! And you did not need to know!”   
  
Hawke, abashed, steps back. They know they have misstepped. Fenris is angry, face twisted in a scowl, fist clenched. He is standing like a bristling watchdog over Anders, who is still asleep. Aveline looks at them sourly.   
  
“I tipped you off for a reason, Hawke,” she says. “I didn’t think you needed everything spelled out.”   
  
“Oh, not you too,” Hawke responds. “I got us to Kirkwall, can’t I get a little credit? And really, Aveline, out of all of us, you have no place to talk. You set off the Arishok! You didn’t even bother investigating the rape of that poor girl--”   
  
“You have no idea of what I’ve tried to do,” Aveline snarls. “Or what I have failed to do. Back off, Hawke. I’m tired. I don’t want to have this conversation.”   
  
“I think we should,” Bethany says carefully, “perhaps all take a second to breathe.”   
  
Varric chuckles. “Let them be, Sunshine.” He waves a hand of cards at her. “We’ll deal you in. Stay out of it.” Hawke blinks. They’re pretty sure those are contradictory instructions, but Bethany makes sense of it and sits down with him and Isabela. Isabela puts her arm around her: more things Hawke, apparently, doesn’t need to know about.   
  
Fenris sits back down, still scowling. He presses two fingers to Anders’ neck again, checking his pulse. Aveline sighs. “You know that does no good.”   
  
“Leave me alone. Hawke has a point.”   
  
“Oh, come off it,” Aveline says. “I’m tired of everyone’s moral superiority. As if any of you are a paragon of virtue. You blew up a chantry, for Andraste’s sake.”   
  
Hawke pauses. “I mean, that was all Anders. He didn’t tell me what the sela petrae and the drakestone were for…”   
  
Aveline huffs. “Aided and abetted blowing up a chantry, then.” She throws her hands. “And you didn’t think to ask? You didn’t think, as the Champion of Kirkwall, you could’ve reigned in this madness? Reasoned with Meredith? Petitioned the Divine?”   
  
Hawke narrows their eyes. “The Divine wants to bring an Exalted March on the city, Aveline,” they say. “The Left Hand told us that much. And if Isabela couldn’t convince her otherwise, I don’t know what you think I could’ve done. And don’t change the subject. You fucked with the Qunari. If you hadn’t set off the Arishok, the Viscount wouldn’t have been killed, and Meredith wouldn’t have been able to put Kirkwall under martial law. The mages wouldn’t have been backed into the corner, she wouldn’t have had enough evidence to call for a Rite, and we could’ve….” Hawke sighs. Could have, would have, should have: it does not matter much, and Kirkwall was a gaatlock barrel, waiting for the fuse.   
  
“Are you done?” Aveline says acidly. “You really overestimate my influence, if you think I could’ve convinced the Viscount to order an internal investigation of the guard’s wrongdoing. I lost my position! ‘Captain of the guard’--they pulled me off fieldwork as soon as they could, and had me pushing paper where I could do no good. I was an  _ administrator _ . I tried. What would you have me do? It would’ve been worse if I left. At least I was leaving a paper trail!”   
  
“You should have left,” Fenris says. “You were complicit in everything that happened, too. You could have done more.”   
  
“Fenris,” Aveline says evenly. “Go fuck yourself.” She gets up and strides past the card game, planting herself at the mouth of the cave. It is still raining, and it is still a long way down. No one can climb that alone. She stands there, back to everyone.   
  
“Well,” Varric says. “Go fish.”


	3. Cards on the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone puts their cards on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by ellie-elfie's prompt, "I can't breathe."

Isabela says, “Can you all fucking chill? I can’t breathe with this shit.” She throws her cards down. “Anyway, I win.” She pulls at her necklace anxiously. Everyone is on edge. Hawke bites back a response. Arguing with Isabela is never worth it, somehow she always wins, just out of pure intransigence.

“We’re playing Go Fish,” Varric says, “not Wicked Grace. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Rivaini. You haven’t won shit.” Hawke is surprised at his vehemence. “Don’t give me that look, Hawke. You know how much I hate caves.” He drops another card. “So we’ve literally blown up our lives. Blondie’s in a fucking coma. Aveline’s finally lost her job, and I’ve wasted all the money I spent bribing the guards to keep the only woman with principles on payroll. Which, in light of the whole city being burned down and invaded by our favorite choir boy, doesn’t seem the worst of my losses. We’re all pissed off. So? What are we going to do about it?”

“We could talk,” Hawke says petulantly, sitting down cross legged. Varric hands them a few random cards. Hawke blinks at them. They aren’t quite sure if they are playing Go Fish, or Wicked Grace, or some unholy game Isabela and Varric have concocted just to mess with Bethany. They’ve done that before, made up a card game and rules on the fly.

“What’s there to talk about?” Isabela says. She puts two cards down. “Hit me.” Varric slaps her hand and moves one of the cards sideways. They are definitely making up the rules as they go along. “We’re all pissed off. We’re on the run. Again. And I’ve lost my ship. Yet again. But what does it matter? Just pieces.”

“What’s that?” Hawke asks.

“Qunari philosophy. My mother was viddathari, you know this.” Isabela puts down another card. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like the Qun, that’s obvious. But it has its moments.” Merrill slinks out of the shadows and curls around Hawke. They put their arm around her and plant a kiss at the edge of her hairline, right above her ear. Merrill shivers, in a good way. Isabela smirks at them. “Anyway, it’s just--none of this shit matters, in the end. You just have to keep moving. Let the waves take you where they will. So Kirkwall’s behind us. Well, at least we know where we’re going. When the rain clears up, we’ll head to Wycombe. I’ve got some friends in the Rivaini merchant community there. We have options. Llomerryn isn’t that awful. Rainy, but smells better than Lowtown, at least. And we’re different about magic, about--well--elves. We won’t be turned away from taverns anymore, I’ll tell you that. If you want to stay with me.”

They all fall quiet at that. Hawke wants everyone to stay together, but to what end? What’s the point where they’re falling apart like this? Take them out of the Hanged Man, without a common enemy, and immediately they are all at each other’s throats. Hawke catches Bethany’s eye. They want to try, but they are tired of trying and failing. They stay silent. 

Fenris says, “The Qunari don’t like magic, and you’re a fool to think Rivain can stay neutral when Tevinter inevitably drags Orlais into their war. And you’re a fool to think the Chantry won’t try to punish the Circles, for what Kirkwall did. You remember what Leliana said. The mages are stuck in a war for their own survival. We will find peace nowhere.”

“Always a ray of sunshine,” Varric remarks. He throws his hand into the air, and the cards rain down like confetti. Merrill giggles. He says the unthinkable: “What if we split up?”

“Don’t say that,” Hawke says immediately. “We stay together.” They cannot lose them and Kirkwall both. They’ve lost Carver and Leandra and Lothering, that awful mansion, their uncle and cousin too. Kirkwall will never welcome its champion home, not with Starkhaven’s army occupying it, not with the Divine’s Seekers crawling through Darktown tunnels for any hint of rebellion. Hawke has lost their home. They cannot lost their friends too. Bethany and Merrill are not enough. They look helplessly at Isabela, who smiles sadly. Isabela, who has never had much at all: she puts a stop to that though.

Isabela fans her cards out in front of her lap. She taps a queen, then looks at Hawke. “We’ll have to keep running, for a long time. Especially if the Divine is after us.” She does not need to say it: I will follow you. She came back even after the Arishok killed the Viscount. She will not abandon them now. Hawke smiles, heartened. They know where they will go, now: Wycombe, then Llomerryn, and onward.

“How much further ‘til Wycombe?” they ask. “Fenris? You’ve clearly been there before. What are our next steps?”

Fenris says, “We don’t move on until Anders can move. It would be safer to split, but I am reluctant to risk missing a rendezvous.” There it is again, unspoken: I followed you from Kirkwall, and Anders too, and I will not leave me now. Do not leave me now. Fenris takes Anders’ hand into his own and his face twists. Hawke shifts, uncomfortable. Everyone has their tragedy, but it is harder to synthesize and react when the stage itself has been removed. Kirkwall is gone. What is the next act?

Varric says testily, “We can’t live on the run forever.” Bethany snorts. They have, from the Marches where their parents met, to Denerim and the Hinterlands back out to Lothering, across the Waking Sea and Kirkwall again. The Hawke siblings can. Varric, though, hates moving. He is as solid as the Stone that birthed him, though he would never admit it. Kirkwall is their home, but for Varric, it is part of him. Hawke feels guilty. They cannot ask him to leave. They cannot ask him to go.

Bethany, though, is irritated. “We can. I can. I don’t like it, but it’s better than letting the templars make me Tranquil.” She picks up the cards they have put out and shuffles them anxiously, fans them out, then shuffles them again. “We all have had to run, Varric. All of us except you.”

Varric is taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean, Sunshine?” His tone is less testy and more surprised. Bethany gets bitter, Hawke knows that better than all of them except maybe Anders, but she tends to keep that anger to herself.

Merrill murmurs, “Oh, don’t start.”

“Maybe I should,” Bethany says. “Maybe we need to be honest about what the next week is going to look like.” She turns around. “Aveline! Come back here. We all need to talk.”

Isabela says, “I think you and I define ‘need’ differently, sweetling. Is there really anything more that needs to be said?”

Aveline stalks over. She stares at Fenris warily, but pushes herself between Merrill and Varric. It’s weird to see her without her armor, her hair unkempt, and tired. Even after they buried Wesley, Aveline kept herself clean. “What?” she says. “What now?”

Bethany says, “We need to decide now if we’re going to split up.”

“No,” Hawke says immediately.

“Hawke,” Aveline starts, but Hawke’s heart is pounding in their chest, and they feel like their sister has punched them in the stomach. They cannot think to lose them all. Merrill and Bethany aren’t enough, not after fleeing Kirkwall. They need more. They want their friends around them like a bulwark against the storm. The rain picks up outside, thunder shaking the woods, and Hawke feels momentarily reassured. They cannot split up just yet.

“Ma vhenan,” Merrill says, “calm down. We’re here, right now.” Hawke looks at her. She looks so weary, so deeply sad. She left Clan Sabrae behind, or they left her, and who knows what they will face, with Sebastian occupying the city? Andrastians don’t like the Dalish, however hands-off and kind Sebastian’s missionary approach is. “Bethany, go on.”

Bethany’s eyes flick to Hawke, then to Varric, and then to Avelien. Staring at Aveline, Bethany says, “We’re three mages, two elves, a dwarf, a pirate, and the Champion of Kirkwall. Aveline, you’re the only one of us who can move relatively...unmolested. And together we stick out. When we’d have to pack up, we were able to pass because we were a family, and Andrastian, and Mother was always good at talking to guards and templars. But everyone knows who the Champion is. Everyone knows they travel with a Dalish elf and the apostate who set the mages alight.”

Hawke says, “When did you become a poet? Is that what they teach you in the Circle? And here I thought it was just blood magic.”

Bethany scowls. “You know I’m right. Stop deflecting. You always do that, since Father died. I wish you wouldn’t. You can’t laugh this off this time. Our house has been destroyed. Our parents are dead. And there’s a warrant for your head, and mine too. And I don’t think that dragon lady is going to save us this time.”

Hawke pushes Merrill off and stands up abruptly. “Then what do you suggest, Bethany?” they snap. “I got us out of Lothering, I got us into Kirkwall, I got us fucking out! With the help of a few miracles. So what do you think? Can you conjure something up?”

“Hawke, sit down,” Aveline says.

“Oh, come off it, Aveline,” Hawke says, exasperated. “You had your tantrum earlier, it’s my turn now.” They laugh at the sour face Aveline pulls. It is all utterly ridiculous, and they rejoice viciously as they make it all worse. “Stop joking? We’re a bad joke. A pirate, two apostates, and the Champion of Kirkwall get stuck in a cave. Got a punchline?” Aveline pulls herself up, and Hawke laughs again. “What? What are you going to do? Hit me? I thought you delegated that to your subordinates. Anybody know what happened to those elves who killed that guard who raped their sister? Aveline? Any guesses?” They step closer, staring right up in Aveline’s face. “Come on, it’s a helluva punchline!”

And then Anders croaks, “Enough.” He paws at the collar of his robe. “I can’t breathe.” Fenris hurriedly unbuttons it for him, and Anders smiles at him. Fenris caresses the edge of his jaw, and Anders grabs his arm to level himself upright. Hawke deflates, relieved that he has woken up, and that it is him staring sternly at the lot of them, not Justice. Perhaps they can make it through this after all.

“Well,” Aveline says, smiling despite herself. “The revolutionary himself. And not possessed. For once.”

Anders grimaces, and gestures. Bethany gets up and pours him a glass of water. He downs it and clears his throat. “Din’mean to interrupt a good screaming match. But.” He rubs at his chest, over his heart, where the templar raised his Smite. “Hi?” He smiles awkwardly. None of them have planned this far. None of this saw this coming, except, perhaps, Anders--and Hawke knows for a fact he was hoping he was going to die in the battle, that fucking fool. Hawke swallows hard, tears springing to the edge of their eyes. These fucking fools: they all thought they were going to die before they got this far, didn’t they?

“Don’t be cute,” Hawke says, voice breaking. “I’m mad at you. You were going to fucking let them kill you, you asshole.” They wipe at their eyes, cursing themselves. Bethany is looking at them in shock. Hawke musters a smile, casts about for a joke. “None of us planned this far, did we? None of us thought we were going to survive what Kirkwall was going to throw at us. But we did. And I for one think it’s more a miracle than that dragon dropping out of the sky to save us from the Blight. That we made it out alive. So let’s not throw that away. I don’t want us to separate.” They look at them all, their friends. “You lot are all I have left. All I want. And I don’t want to leave you behind.”

Isabela bites her lip anxiously. “Aw, Hawke! And here I was going to sell you all to the Blind Men.”

“Shut up and stop ruining the moment, Isabela,” Aveline says wearily. “Can we salvage this?”

Varric offers, “Group hug?”

Fenris says flatly, “No.”


	4. Acquaintances to Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by ellie-elfie's prompt, "Hey, don't do that, you're hurting yourself."

With that, the tension dissolves, and Hawke begins to laugh. They throw themself down next to Fenris and pull him into a hug, messing his hair. “Gimme a hug!” they say. “I deserve it, I saved your sorry ass.”   
  
Fenris says, “Ugh.” He scowls but does not pull away. Aveline huffs and moves to Varric. Hawke can feel Varric glaring at them. They purposefully turn away from the two of them, grinning a tad maniacally at their other friends. The fissures are obvious. Hawke thinks, maybe it’s like the Fade, and they’ll go away if I don’t look at them. Merrill gets up and begins moving around the shelter, pulling together a meal. Bethany follows. Isabela creeps closer to Hawke, Fenris, and Anders, watching the others fondly.   
  
“Damn, Anders,” Isabela says. “I didn’t think you were going to be there when you woke up.”   
  
Anders winces. “I wasn’t so sure either,” he says quietly. Fenris tightens his grasp on his hand. Hawke worries that he is hurting him. They aren’t quite sure about the two of them, though they had almost felt themself falling off the precipice into love with both men. They have that intensity, that fervor, that adoration that feels akin to worship--but Merrill’s love is calm like the surf lapping at the shore at low tide, and Hawke is not yet another ship to wreck in the storm. Anders and Fenris seem tender, anyway--desperate, but tender.   
  
Hawke says, “So. Still alive then?” It comes out more sour than they intend. “Despite your best efforts.”   
  
Anders looks guilty. “I didn’t want to die,” he claims. Fenris looks away sharply, hair hiding his face. Anders bites his lip. “It wasn’t--well, I made it. You got me through. The wardens always said I’d go out with a bang.”   
  
Hawke starts to laugh, which is better than crying. “Wait until they hear about what you did in Kirkwall!”   
  
“Which was not a suicide attempt,” Fenris says meditatively. “So you say.”   
  
“It wasn’t. Fenris, you know it wasn’t.”   
  
“I do not want to discuss your propensity to self-destruction right now,” Fenris says, voice strained. “But we will.”   
  
Anders looks irritated. “It’s not self-destruction, it was basic self-preservation and you  _ know _ I had no other option--”   
  
“Maybe I should leave you two alone,” Hawke suggests. “Somehow. Because we’re stuck in this cave until the rain lets out. And it’s the sort of situation where we need to rappel down, so we’d need to do it together.”   
  
“No,” Fenris says. “Hawke, back me up in this.” Hawke really does not want to get involved in this, but they have never been able to tell their friends when to learn some emotional continence. They sigh. “You let us know you were planning something. You told me we needed to prepare to flee. You did  _ not _ tell me you were planning to blow up the Chantry!”   
  
Hawke shrugs. “To be fair, it was a little obvious, with the sela petrae.” Fenris gives them a dirty look. Hawke spreads out their hands. “What? Come on. Sela petrae, drakestones, all those dark murmurings in the sewers--I just thought it was more than a one-man show.”   
  
Anders smiles slightly. “Well, you know me. I like to hog the stage. I didn’t want to bring anyone down with me.”   
  
“Don’t I know it!” Isabela snorts. “And you were only three drinks in, too….” One day Hawke will have the bravery to ask exactly how the two met, and what they did. Today is not that day. They love their friends, truly, but they are so much, and today is too much, and they do not want to know.   
  
Fenris says, “I take exception to that.” He is very still. “‘Bring anyone down with you’--who do you think we are, then? Mere incidental acquaintances?”   
  
Isabela bumps Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke blinks. That means she wants them to make a joke. “Acquaintances to murder, you mean,” they try. “Uh. Accessories.” Isabela rolls her eyes. Everyone’s a critic, especially when your friend has tried to kill himself. Anger lights itself in the pit of their stomach. They swallow it, it isn’t productive, but testily, they say, “I helped you find the materials to make the bomb. You should have just told me, instead of trying to be a martyr. You’re my friend. I care about you. If we hadn’t done anything to stop Meredith, Bethany would’ve been made Tranquil too. I thought I made it obvious I supported you, we could’ve worked in tandem with the last of the Viscount’s family--it didn’t have to end like this. There could’ve been another way.”   
  
“No there couldn’t!” Anders stands up suddenly, eyes flashing blue. Merrill and Bethany turn around simultaneously from the mouth of the cave, and everyone’s attention is glued to him. Hawke notices Aveline’s hand drift to the handle of her sword, Varric fingers a bottle of knock-out powder he keeps at his waist, even Isabela already has a dagger in her hand. Anders wrestles Justice back. “There wasn’t,” he repeats. “I tried all other ways. Orsino too. Endlessly. When the Left Hand of the Divine came, I knew it was over. The Chantry would rather kill us than let us go. And I wasn’t going to sit down and let them  _ brand me _ \--”   
  
“I’m not disagreeing with that!” Hawke snaps. “I just--I’m your friend, Anders. We all are. I’ve known you for almost a decade.  _ You did not have to do that alone _ . We’re just as implicated as you were ever going to be.”   
  
“Leliana used to be better,” Isabela says. “Before the Chantry got its claws in her again. But--we’re here now, aren’t we? Together?” She looks at them all pleadingly. “So do we have to fight? The decision was already made, why talk about it now?” Anders’ eyes flash again, but Fenris grabs his arm in a bruising grip, and Hawke winces. Isabela tends to agree with them, she hates anything that restricts herself and has enough empathy to hate prisons for other people--but Isabela hates conflict, and hates being trapped into defending a position. Anders and Fenris both need clear lines. Hawke puts their head in their hands, frustrated.   
  
Varric shakes his head angrily. “Because some of us didn’t want to be driven out of town,” he says. “Because some of us think killing a grand cleric is a fucking stupid way to try to convince people you’re not an evil abomination. Because some of us believe in using our words.” Hawke thinks, well that’s not where I wanted the conversation to go. They open their mouth to disagree, to defend, to protest, but Merrill gets there first.   
  
“Varric, please,” Merrill says. She is vibrating with tension. Hawke reaches for her, but Merrill brushes them off. “If it wasn’t going to be Anders, it was going to be me. Or Feynriel. My clan. That lyrium. Or even Hawke, you know Meredith was trying to push them out since they killed the Arishok. Varric, don’t do this. Please.”   
  
Varric’s face twists. Hawke is terrified again. He comes across as easy-going, but he disagrees with Anders on most things. Hawke had been afraid Varric and Aveline wouldn’t have fought with them against Meredith; both of them knew she was crazy, but neither of them like risks. They love Kirkwall and its structures, oppressive or not. But both of them are the reason why Hawke has made it thus far, from Lothering to a hole in the wall in the Free Marches, as it pours outside. Aveline got them to Kirkwall, Varric got them out of Lowtown. They’ve only made it this far because of them, and they don’t want to know how far they can go without them.   
  
“The pillow,” Varric says. “The fucking pillow.” He laughs shortly. “That’s what gets me, every time. You gave me it. And why? Because you didn’t want to deal with the  _ fucking _ consequences. Your little revolution, your fucking lover, your clinic--you were ready to give it all away. Because you were done. You wanted your blaze of glory--and now  _ we _ have to deal with it. Kirkwall, Kirkwall’s gone. The Hanged Man? Probably burnt to the ground. I  _ know _ they went for your clinic. And Blighted Prince Charming’s seized all our assets and is tracking us like a bloodhound. Because you were pissed at the grand cleric. At the Chantry. So you decided to burn it all down, and leave us in the ashes.”   
  
Hawke says, slightly impressed, “Damn.” It is slightly better than what they were expecting, and at this point they are just relieved no one has hit anyone yet. Next to them Merrill relaxes slightly, and she slides her hand into theirs and squeezes it comfortingly. They are upset Anders prepared to die. They are upset he treated his revolution like suicide. They are so utterly relieved Varric is angry about that too, and not that he is still alive.   
  
Anders closes his eyes and sags visibly. He hugs himself, nails digging into his arms. Fenris says, “Don’t do that, you’re hurting yourself.” Anders gives him a wretched look.   
  
“Isn’t that all I do?” he murmurs.   
  
“No,” Varric says. “It isn’t, you asshole. You hang out with me, and that was a good choice. And I suppose Broody was a good idea too. How old are you know? Past the fucking age to know that when you hurt yourself, you hurt the people around you. Us. And I might not agree with you, I might really want to hit you right now--”   
  
“Varric,” Fenris says warningly, and Varric puts his hands up.   
  
“I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he says. Hawke shoots him an amused look:  _ while Fenris is around _ , they finish silently. “But, anyway--I don’t actually want you to hurt. Else I wouldn’t have sunk so much cash into keeping the Carta off your back.  _ Especially _ when you helped out with the strike. You owe me your fucking life. Live it.”   
  
Anders says, “I didn’t know you cared.”   
  
Varric says, “Fuck you. Hawke, I have terrible taste in friends.”   
  
“Don’t look at me,” Hawke says mildly. “I’m terrible too. I’m the one who went digging around in shit to get the explosives for him.”   
  
“So what now?” Isabela says. “Are we all good? Because the rain’s stopped, and we should get moving. Anders? You’re not going to blow yourself up? And Fenris, you’re not going to tear out Aveline’s throat? And Bethany--”   
  
“What?” Bethany calls from deep in the storeroom, where she is packing their bags with Aveline. “I’m staying out of this!”   
  
“You do that, carry on,” Isabela says. “Keep doing that.” They pack up, Fenris and Merrill fretting quietly over exactly how to write the apology in Elvhen and what wall on which to pin it up. Fenris speaks the dialect the clan whose storeroom they borrowed uses, but doesn’t know how to use their alphabet, and while Merrill knows the characters, she puzzles over the words. Hawke has managed to pick up over the years that Elvhen and its dialects are based on intent, and change according to the context. The two of them can’t seem to decide on how to convey the context of the situation, and disagree on what they are enmeshed in anyway.   
  
As the others bustle about packing, Varric walks to Hawke and gestures at the two arguing elves. “If I write about this,” he says, “I’m skipping over this part. Because I have completely lost the plot.”   
  
Hawke heaves their pack onto their back and whistles for their mabari to join them. “We’re all fucking pissed at each other, but we know that’ll pass. We’re not separating.” They smile. “We’re getting through this together, somehow.”   
  
Varric says, “I hope you’re right, Hawke. Because I’m not so sure anything is resolved.”


	5. Nothing Special, Just Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and friends trek through the Vimmark Mountains, and argue philosophy on the way too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the prompt musetta3 sent me, "Hey, look at me. Breathe."

The warm wet of the woods washes away the ash of the last of Kirkwall. Merrill winds them through the muddy woods. She makes them take their shoes off to confuse their tracks, despite Anders muttering about hookworm and Varric’s hatred of dirt, and routinely casts a spell to shift the leaf litter back over their prints.   
  
“It’s going to look like elves were travelling, if they’re looking at all,” she says. “Not four humans, a dwarf, and Dog.” Dog barks merrily at the mention of him and Fenris shushes him.   
  
“In Seheron, we had  _ caligo lagoenae _ ,” Fenris says. “Can you do something similar?”   
  
“Fenris, I don’t speak Tevene,” Merril says shortly. Hawke puts their hand on her shoulder. She is still irritated over the grammar argument in the cave, and Hawke knows she has refused to learn Tevene as a point of principle. Bethany’s said that the best way to learn old magic is to read the magisterium’s journals. Merrill has said the only elves who know Tevene are slaves and slavers, and she would rather not. She continues, “Do you know it in Common? Or is it a spellword?”   
  
Fenris snaps, “Don’t patronize me,” and now it is Anders’ turn to step in and diffuse the situation.   
  
“I can work up a fog,” he says. “But you’re better at nature magic than I am, Merrill.” They don’t bother asking Bethany, because Bethany is best at curses and massively destructive rift spells. Hawke smirks to themself. Their family always makes a splash, wherever they go--good thing Merrill knows how to cover it up. Merrill weaves and thickens the humidity of the already cloying woods into a thick fog. Bethany summons a small flame and leads them forward, Fenris at her side, checking for signs that his underground left.   
  
Aveline sighs. “Creeping through the forest with a thick fog, as if that’s not suspicious.” She shakes her head. Fenris made her change into a light leather armor and leave her guard’s uniform behind. She looks close to the worn woman that Hawke met, all those long years ago, with the security of Kirkwall of her back. She still clutches her sword. Hawke is sorry they made her throw away the Amell family shield. They cannot help but suspect Fenris took some pleasure out of ordering Aveline out of her uniform. They’ve wanted to do the same for so long too, but they know the only way to balance their friends is to step out of the way. Aveline is an idealist, perhaps even more than Anders is; she finds her disillusionment in her own way. Hawke mutters a curse as they step into a particularly noxious puddle of mud. They’ve pushed her further down it, certainly.   
  
“Dunno how you stand this,” Hawke says. “The mud. The bugs. Fungus. Do you ever think you’re going to get infected with, like, mushroom people?”   
  
“Mushroom people,” Varric mutters. “That’s a good one. Better than lizards.”   
  
“No, really,” Hawke protests, scraping the mud of their feet on a tree. Merrill, irritated, waves a hand and the mud hardens and falls off. Hawke blushes: right, that’s a very clear mark a person was there. “Sorry. But, we’ve all seen some strange things in our time in Kirkwall. Amulets that turn into strange witches who can turn into dragons and eat darkspawn. Trees that turn into angry men-spirit-elf things that guard tombs. An actual ancient elvhen god, living in the sewer.”   
  
“You know, it’s not so clear Xebenkeck was one of my people’s gods,” Merrill says testily. “She is referred to as both a Forbidden One in our lore and a Forgotten One in the Chantry’s interpolation of the Tevinter text, and--”   
  
“Pedant,” Hawke says fondly. “But given all the weird shit we’ve had to fight, I feel like we’re due for some mushroom people springing up on us.”   
  
Merrill says, “That’s not how the Fade works. This is land still roved by the People. Think about it like a garden. A good Keeper prunes back the rot and the overgrowth, and leaves space for growth. And burns it out, when necessary. Kirkwall hasn’t had a good Keeper in a long time.”   
  
“Or First,” Fenris says nastily.   
  
Merrill says, “That demon took Marethari, Fenris. Not me. And if you’re not able to understand that, I don’t understand how you’re able to tolerate Justice and Anders and not what I did with Audacity.”   
  
“Because Justice isn’t a demon,” Anders says angrily.   
  
Merrill sighs. “I haven’t the time to argue Chantry propaganda with you. You can lead a halla to the water, but you can’t make him drink. I don’t understand how you can hate the Circles and still impose the way they shape the Fade--”   
  
“Oh, come off it, you’re worse than Velanna,” Anders says. “Even you have to admit, that time Hawke dragged us into the Fade, that demons mirror Andraste’s teachings on the seven deadliest sins.”   
  
“Only because Andrastians outnumber us now,” Merrill argues. “Because when I dream with my clan, we see spirits inherently different--which  _ implies _ that there is no set form, as you say. What’s the line between Justice and Vengeance, anyway? Between Pride and Fortitude, Audacity and Courage? Fenris, you must have seen how Seheron feels differently than, say, Minrathous, or Kirkwall, or even Wycombe and the Friendly Homes. Where the Fade touches the Waking World--”   
  
“They’re going to go on like this for hours,” Varric says. “And I don’t understand shit. Sunshine, why don’t you ever join in?”   
  
“Both of them are far too proud to be fun to argue with,” Bethany shrugs. She pushes the lick of flame over her head and nudges it onward. It warms her tired face. Hawke thinks that she looks like their mother, as beautiful as her too, and Leandra would be furious to see the mess their children had made of their lives, on the run again. But she would be happy that they were alive.   
  
They troop through the forest, wet and muddy and irritable, and eventually even Anders runs out of things to argue about. Hawke grows comfortable in the smell of Merrill’s petrichor spells. Though the mud is admittedly unpleasant, they like the feel of wet grass sticking to their feet and legs. The woods are loud, Merrill’s magic feels like a hug from her herself, and they feel like they may just get through this. The ground grows rocky as they climb into the Vimmarks. Varric, though he hates inclined surfaces, argues that it is safer to stay in the mountains and follow a winding path past Ostwick rather than risk crossing them and skirting so close to Starkaven.   
  
“Prince Charming won’t think we’ll go up,” he says. “Trust me. One thing Sebastian knows about me, is how much I hate hiking.”   
  
They set up camp in rock shelters Merrill picks out. She knows this part of the route better than Fenris. Rain sets back in at night. Hawke wonders if Merrill inadvertently summoned it, with her fog spells. It is hard to gauge what a mage can do, because their friends regularly do the impossible. Varric has plucked arrows out of the air, Fenris can pass through walls like a lyrium-infused ghost, and Aveline took down the eldritch horror of a rock wraith in the Deep Roads.   
  
The feel of the caves is fantastic. The air tastes good, somehow, fresh and hungry, and the walls are inscribed with runes, layered through the ages. Some of them Merril can read, and she and Fenris sit down with a notebook and they go over them together, Merrill saying the words aloud and Fenris trying to write them down. Anders sits next to Hawke as they watch them. They are all tired, but the tension has been easing the further they get away from the city. They are not sure any of this can be resolved, but right now, they are too tired to fight.   
  
“Has Fenris been teaching you his dialect?” Hawke asks. “Merrill tries with me, she’s very particular about it. Says my accent is adorably shit.”   
  
Anders says, “Justice knows Elvhen. I--sometimes I know it when he says it, sometimes I don’t. It’s easier when the Veil is thinner, but gives me a headache.”   
  
“Huh. So spirits speak Elvhen.” Hawke turns to Bethany. “How does that work?” She is the Fade expert, out of the trio, though Bethany disengages with grace whenever Merrill disagrees with her.   
  
Bethany shrugs. “Dunno. Maker’s first children? Anecdotally I’ve heard that elvhen mages are more susceptible to the Harrowing--”   
  
“That’s not true,” Anders interrupts, “that’s because of templar bias and the way they’re discriminated against--”   
  
“Let me finish, Anders,” Bethany says, irritated. “As I was saying. There seems to be a stronger pull between elves and spirits, and Merrill thinks is has to do with Dalish cosmology, though that wouldn’t make sense because Orsino--well, no one has actually studied it. And now no one will, not with what’s happening with the Circles. If they don’t just kill us all.”   
  
“Fiona won’t let that happen,” Anders says, face hard. “The Liberati have enough of a majority to push for a vote.”   
  
Bethany snorts. “Didn’t know you were  _ that _ engaged in Circle politics.”   
  
“I voted,” Anders protests. “Until it was no longer useful for me.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hawke says. “I’m gonna go talk to Varric instead.” The days proceed much like the rest. People talk. Hawke listens. They learn that Isabela, Anders, and Merrill have all met the hero-wardens of Ferelden before. Merrill comes from the same clan as Warden Mahariel, though Sabrae split before the Blight. Anders still corresponds with Surana, who lives in Amaranthine to avoid the stress of warden politics and to support Warden Tabris, who Isabela hooked up with in Denerim. Isabela also slept with the Left Hand of the Divine, they discover, and the King of Ferelden’s lover.   
  
“Though we couldn’t talk him into bed with us,” she sighs. “Though Zevran and Tabris and I really tried. He just--I think he got overwhelmed by all the anatomy. Poor boy.”   
  
Hawke snickers. The days go on like this, aching their way through the Vimmarks. These are the paths the Dalish take, and escaped slaves, and occasionally mages. They find marks of all three groups overlapping, though Bethany casts enough obfuscation hexes to keep them from intersecting that she collapses in her bedroll at the end of each day, shaking. Likewise cleaning their tracks begins to take a toll on Merrill. She withdraws into herself, focusing on relentlessly hiding their trail, and not even Varric can get her to laugh.   
  
“I’m tired,” she says. “And I need to focus. Please stop.”   
  
Hawke decides they need a rest day at the border of Hercinia and Wycombe. Fenris knows a cave system that will take them directly to his friends from Clan Lavellan, who promised him refuge the last time they saw him. He claims it will only take two days, but it will be two days without sunlight, and Hawke remembers how depressed Varric got without the sky. They camp in a treehouse built into a grove right below the mouth of the cave. Everyone is quiet, for the most part, curled around the fire. Aveline hums as she patches a shirt for Isabela, and Anders goes through his medicine bag to reassure himself they have enough to heal them through to Wycombe.   
  
Varric stares into the fire. “When I write about this,” he says, “I think I’ll keep this for myself.”   
  
“Why?” Bethany asks.   
  
He purses his lips, thinking. Hawke wraps their arms around Merrill, who is already half-asleep, and enjoys their friends. It is always fun to watch Varric think, he’s the cleverest out of all them, except maybe Merrill. Merrill buries her face in their arms, and they look down, concerned. She is upset, and there is nowhere private to ask why.   
  
The fire casts shadows over his face. Varric looks old. They all do. It has been a hard month. He says finally, “Because there’s no romance in it. No one wants to read about the Champion and their friends all fighting, and not really coming to any consensus besides that they want to stop fighting and be safe. There’s no moral in it, nothing uplifting. Just that people fight, viciously. That we make mistakes we can’t fix. And we just have to live with it. It’s not compelling. Not like our story in Kirkwall, which is more  _ about _ Kirkwall. Who are we without the city in the background? I don’t know. I think I’ll end it in the docks. Or maybe with us watching the city burn. So people can assign us closure. Choose their own happy ending, because I don’t know what ours will be yet.”   
  
Isabela says, “Nothing special, just pieces.” She stretches again. “Keep talking like that and you’ll end up a Qunari. Our story doesn’t need a moral, Varric. That’s not how life works.”   
  
“I know that,” he says. “But that’s not the point. The story  _ isn’t _ life. So I can make it work however I want.”   
  
Merrill pushes herself up in Hawke’s lap and whispers in their ear, “If they all start arguing again I will either scream or cry, I haven’t decided yet.”   
  
The journey has taken its toll on her. Hawkes examines her closely and sees the shadows like smudges under her eyes. She’s paler than usual, and she starts shaking. Hawke inclines to the edge of the treehouse with their head and quickly they move as far as they can from the others. Bethany looks at them questioningly, but they shake their head sharply. Mercifully they are left alone. Bethany is a good sister. She knows exactly when to look the other way and cause a distraction--and that she does, wheedling Varric to read a piece from his book.   
  
As the others laugh at the mess Varric has made of them, Hawke turns to Merrill. They ask, “Are you alright?”   
  
The fire casts light into Merrill’s eyes like a cat’s. When she looks at them, her eyes shine and Hawke cannot help but remember how otherworldly she is. She bridges both worlds, the Dalish and the human, but sometimes the old magic wills out. Merrill says, “Clan Lavellan doesn’t like me much. Because of Marethari. I don’t get along with their First. And I’m not sure how their Keeper will respond to me.”   
  
“Then they’re idiots,” Hawke says, “and we’ll keep moving. Send Aveline to resupply in town, and move onto Rivain. Dairsmuid or Llomerryn, or that Dalish town Isabela talked about.”   
  
Merrill is shaking harder now. “No.” Hawke takes her hands, but she pulls away. “I wish it were that easy, vhenan. But there won’t be anywhere to go. Not with the Dalish. Because of me.”   
  
“Hey,” Hawke says. “Just look at me. Breathe. That’s not true. Look at me.” Merrill’s eyes flash back to blue. “We got this far, okay? And I’m okay with--I didn’t grow up as nomadic as you, but I can do it. It could be fun. I liked moving, as a kid. Bethany and I are used to it. And if we can get another ship, well, that’ll make things easier. And you know Isabela’s going to get us on a ship at some point. I know everything is changing. If the Divine calls that Exalted March...well, you remember what that dragon lady said.”   
  
“Asha’bellanar,” Merrill corrects, lips twitching. “And it was a prayer to Mythal that revived her, there’s something in that.”   
  
Hawke sighs. “Well, you remember what she said.” They close their eyes and focus on the words, which has haunted them since--partly because the delivery had been so terrifying. They quote, “‘We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the  [ abyss ](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Void) . Watch for that moment...and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.’ And, well, we’re lying up in the sky right now, so I think we’re doing alright.”   
  
Merrill smiles despite herself. “How do you remember that?” she asks. “I don’t even remember it like that.”   
  
“Varric wrote it down,” Hawke confesses. “And it sounded so cool I memorized it. It’s good advice.”   
  
Merrill turns to the fire, where Aveline is holding a book with a luridly pink cover over the fire while Anders and Isabela cackle and Varric jumps, protesting. She says, “I know I shouldn’t have let Keeper find out about Audacity. She thought I was weak, but I  _ knew _ her pride, I knew her arrogance. And her fear, since Tamlen died. I should’ve written to Mahariel, who could’ve convinced her. Or gone to the Applewood--but I didn’t. And though I lost my clan, I still have you. My aravel.” She gestures to their friends. “Walkers of the lonely path, who never submit.” She smiles sadly. “I think I fell into that abyss, Hawke. And now I’m starting to float up.”   
  
Hawke takes her hand and kisses it. Her nails are bitten to the quick. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” they say. “Can you teach Anders that spell?”   
  
“No, vhenan,” Merrill shakes her head. “It’s--it was part of my duties as First, to clear the tracks of the aravel. I can’t teach a human that. I love you all, but that is for myself.” They accept that, and all the ways Merrill pushes herself too hard, and hand-in-hand they get up and rejoin their friends at the fire. There is a touch of mania to the conversation. Everyone is utterly shattered, but they do not want to go to sleep. No one knows what the next day will bring, and they are clinging to the routine they have set up. Hawke blinks and pretends that they are at the Hanged Man for a moment, but the bar has run dry, so they are all stuck being sober and chummy with each other. It doesn’t work. It feels dishonest, and the woods smell too good.   
  
Finally, Aveline takes charge. “We need to rest. Especially you, Merrill. Those spells couldn’t have been easy. We’ll get up before dawn and head out then.”   
  
Fenris speaks up. “And Clan Lavellan will hide us, for however long we need.” He looks at Merrill steadily. “First Lavellan promised me that. They will not abandon their vhenallin. And she owes me a favor, anyway.”   
  
Varric says idly, “There’s a story in there.”    
  
Bethany groans. “Not more stories, please,” she says. “Aveline’s right, we do need to rest. This part’s nearly over.” She banks the fire to keep it burning low through the night and they set up their last camp before the descent.    
  
Hawke is struck by the faith they have in them, going through their nightly routine. They have been two weeks on the road, camping through the woods, and though they have spent it mostly at each other’s throats, they have made it through. So little has been resolved, and there is still so much unknown. As Flemeth predicted, they stand balanced on the precipice of change, and they know they are about to launch themselves off that cliff. But they have their friends to slow that crash, and by this point, who knows? Maybe the witch will turn them into a dragon. Settling into their sleeping roll, Hawke cannot help but grin. They faced down the Blight, the long march to Kirkwall, the Deep Roads, their mother’s death, and the start of a revolution. What could possibly happen next?   
  
They whisper to Merrill, “I feel like this world is dying. It’s monstrous.” They smirk. “Monstrously exciting. Can’t you feel it? A new world is trying to be born.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last line is from one of my favorite writers, Antonio Gramsci: “The old world is dying and the new world struggles to be born. Now is the time of monsters.”

**Author's Note:**

> A tie-in between my story "Anders in Autumn" and "Fen'Harel's Teeth." Stands on its own from either of those. This is the Sindarin Hawke notices, I couldn't get it to link into the AO3 interface: https://www.elfdict.com/w/imladris/s?include_old=1.


End file.
